The Cellblock
by fleurs-du-mol
Summary: Spoilers for Cyberwoman and Adrift. Ianto contemplates his relationship with Jack, as I take some creative liberties over the use of old Hub spaces.


Ianto is laying in the bunker he always suspected was in the Hub before he got to see it, listening to the drip of water coming from somewhere above his head—or maybe it's somewhere below. Hard to tell down here, being so far underground, but the echo is hollow and metallic, familiar. If anyone else spends as much time here as Jack, it's him, and that started before "they" started.

It started his second day on the job in Cardiff as the so-called butler of Torchwood Three, wandering the corridors and basement levels that had hardly been used for a hundred years, eventually finding the row of jail cells with bars instead of bullet and shatterproof glass. He goes back to them many times, the quiet and the dark and the stillness functioning as a sort of sedative.

Finally, one night, his blue eyes gone unreadable and chilly, Jack catches Ianto with his fingers curled around the rusty metal. Ianto learns that Torchwood agents kept Jack in one of these cells, and forced him to die, over and over, until he agreed to work for the agency. That's why the cells are still there. There are plenty of old spaces in the Hub—the Hub itself is generations old—but this is the only one that's not used, one whose purpose is to stand as a private memorial or mausoleum.

Later, much later, Jack tells Ianto that he keeps it as a reminder of what Torchwood shouldn't be.

All of that was before "they" started too, but the night that Jack finds him in the old Victorian cellblock, it is the first moment Ianto truly admits to himself that it isn't just Jack's coat he likes. Maybe it was the ancient eyes in the roguish, film star face. In hindsight, that should have also been the night when he let Lisa go, let her go and disposed of the body the way that he disposes of everything else.

It was the night he fell in love with Jack. He didn't know why. He still doesn't know why. It isn't men; it is Jack.

After the incident with Lisa taking over the Hub, while Ianto is trying to pull himself together, he goes to the cellblock for the first time in months. Jack finds him there again, ultimately, and he expects to be fired or at the least, lectured. He isn't sure he can handle either, but he knows which he'd prefer. He doesn't want to take retcon; he doesn't want to forget. He says so to Jack, and he thinks he said death would be preferable. The conversation's hazy, especially now.

Because that time, they end up having sex on the floor in the dust. It begins with Ianto's back against the bars, Jack's large hands desperate and insistent and keeping him from getting scratched by the rust, the jagged outmoded metal. Then they end up decidedly less vertical before the bars can give.

Jack is half laughing into Ianto's mouth at the irony of it all as he kisses him, and Ianto is relieved, so relieved, that he doesn't have to forget. He basks in it: the knowledge that this is happening and is his to keep.

But the relief channels into something much easier to consummate and express; Ianto bites Jack's lower lip to stop him laughing and feels a low growl in return, feels fingernails raking into his back through his thin cotton shirt.

They can hardly see in the dark; there are no windows and the electricity's never been rewired. But they don't really let go of each other, they only make it out of half their clothes, and somehow Jack gets his coat on the ground underneath them—before they collapse in a heap.

Ianto's brain is hardly processing, but bearing Jack's weight seems familiar from when they captured that stupid pterodactyl and nearly got skewered. Jack's heavier than him, so he's gasping before they start much else other than kissing, but it's delicious there in the darkness, feeling the friction of cloth and the warmth of breath on flesh. This is where they discover the kind of secrets that are good to keep, the ones that aren't company mandated but are more proprietary.

They're lucky it's so late and no one's working on individual projects: Ianto doubts even the Hub is soundproof enough to disguise the noises they're making.

And there's a kind of antique, brass device that they end up slamming into and irrevocably breaking, the fervor of two grown men destroying some Torchwood relic; Ianto doesn't know what it's for and Jack won't say, so the next day he puts it in the archives. He also bandages up a long cut that he didn't feel getting at the time, but it must have come from some component of the machine. If Jack got cut, it's not like it would matter.

He suspects that the daft thing was an instrument of Jack's torture. He could take it to Tosh to know for sure, but never does.

That night seems to be just as therapeutic for Jack as it is for him. They exorcised the space using their bodies. Though they never speak of it again, occasionally Ianto will make sidelong references to the cellblock that the others don't understand; they cause Jack to bite back a smile as Ianto walks away.

He rolls over and pulls the covers up further, glancing at the clock set in the wall. When it's only him in Jack's bed, the chill gets uncomfortable, but he's hoping Jack will return. Sometimes if he lays here long enough, wearing few enough pieces of clothing, Jack acquiesces. Since Jack knows exactly what Ianto's up to and they both enjoy trying to get the other to give into the game, there's no reason to go upstairs just yet. Besides, if he had to, Ianto could get into his suit in about three minutes. He's gotten it down to an art, especially because the suit's the only thing Ianto's ever worn that Jack will compliment, possibly because Jack prefers everyone naked anyway.

Ten minutes pass and Ianto's beginning to think of getting dressed when Jack reappears. Ianto grins. "Call me foolish," he says.

"No, just singular," says Jack, settling on the bed and planting a slow kiss on Ianto's exposed neck. He swears in a low voice. That's probably his most prone spot, the one that will have him doing anything Jack asks, not that he wouldn't anyway, but it provides an added incentive. "A man after my own heart."

Ianto takes in his lover's fully dressed, but still powerful under the clothes, form, and sighs. Jack is dressed for work. "Apparently too singular. How long was I asleep?"

"A few hours," he says. "Some negative Rift activity required me to suit up. It spat another person out. I had to go over to Flat Holm and see him settled before the others got suspicious. I didn't mean to leave you cold, but duty called."

Ianto takes in the sadness in Jack's tone, and looks up into his face, which is drawn but not without its customary half-smile, the one that seems to be reserved for Ianto. He likes that Jack doesn't hide the expression when they're not in private anymore. "I'm sorry."

He knows how much Jack despises having to keep the people who get tossed out of the Rift a secret. There aren't many, but even the handful that they have is too big. It affects him differently than the myriad of other things he has to keep to himself.

"Me too."

"It's all right," Ianto says. He cups a hand to Jack's cheek. "We're doing what we can—I'm not even sure what else we could do." Jack closes his eyes and leans into Ianto's touch. "Anything going on up there that I need to worry about? A dangerously low supply of coffee, perhaps?" Jack chuckles.

"No." He turns his head and kisses Ianto's palm.

"Some old agent's letters that need immediate archiving?"

"Hm... no." Another kiss, and it's all Ianto can do to keep from immediately attempting to pin Jack to the bed. It's useless, usually, unless Jack wants to be pinned.

"A burning desire for pizza?"

"Absolutely not." A flick of tongue, this time.

"Well then," he says, keeping most of the catch from his voice, "Anything—other than me, and I don't count as official Torchwood business—that needs _your_ undivided and forceful attention for the foreseeable future?"

Jack opens his eyes, which have gone heated, licks his lips, and Ianto knows he's won this round. "Not that I know of, no."

"Come here," says Ianto. "Do you know, apart from today, I can't think of the last time we've actually done this sort of thing in a bed?" Ianto pulls Jack toward him by his shirt, straining upward to capture his lips with his own. In so doing, he loses most of the sheets, but still considers the maneuver an unqualified success since Jack's breath quickens when he realizes Ianto's still not wearing a stitch of clothing.

"Because beds are overrated," Jack says, fingers ghosting down Ianto's spine, causing him to shiver. "But one with you in it will do quite nicely."


End file.
